


Don't Meet Me In St. Louis

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, John Sings, M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Songfic, no baby watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 12:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Somehow, Christmas carols sound different when Sherlock plays them.





	Don't Meet Me In St. Louis

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt, 'Christmas Carols/Violin'.  
> I'm just ignoring Sherlock's exile, writing out Mary and the baby-that-never-was, and going from there.

It had been a long day. A long, frustrating day. After eight hours of listening to the same CD of generic Christmas carols piped into the clinic’s rooms, John was on edge. He didn’t mind the holidays, but this year was different. The first year since Mary had left, the false stomach placed on their bed as a pointed statement – it wasn’t real. The double meaning was clear and unsurprising, but it still hurt to see it so calmly set out for him. John had stared at it for ages before packing up his few personal belongings and taking himself to Baker Street. Sherlock had not commented when John had told him what happened and asked if he could stay.

“Of course,” the detective had said, waiving one arm towards the upstairs bedroom. John had trudged up the stairs, holding back the tears until the door swung closed behind him. He hoped Sherlock hadn’t heard his pathetic whimpers. The waves of despair had washed over him, much like those dark days upon his return from Afghanistan.

 _Not the same,_ a voice in his head reminded him. He’d had nothing, then; now, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and even Molly would answer their phones for him if he called. Well, Sherlock might not. Depended on what mood he was in. John grinned a watery grin to himself at this. He wasn’t back where he had started. Mary was gone, and goodness knew things hadn’t been great between them for a long time. The possibility of Mycroft wanting to know about her absence crossed his mind, but John dismissed it. Mycroft had probably known before John did. With a deep sigh, John had taken himself to the kitchen to make tea. When he found himself gritting his teeth at the lack of milk and profusion of body parts, John knew he was home once more.

+++

Now, weeks later, the Christmas spirit seemed to have bypassed John Watson. As he returned to Baker Street, snow swirling lightly around him, the silence made John’s ears ring. He was so glad to have “Good King Wenceslas” out of his ears. Who the hell was Stephen, anyway? Pushing open the front door, leaving the philosophy outside, John embraced the warmth. There was a heavy smell of fruit and pastry, signalling Mrs. Hudson’s afternoon spent baking again. With any luck, Sherlock would have left him a mince pie or two. Before he could relax, however, the strains of violin from above caught his ears and he groaned.

“Fuck King Wenceslas,” John grumbled, muttering to himself all the way up the stairs. It was a coping mechanism he’d long ago developed whenever Sherlock was playing and he wasn’t in the mood – get all the complaints out of the way before entering the flat so he could greet Sherlock with a good grace. Nothing made Sherlock sulk like being snapped at, and John needed the company tonight. A quiet night in, nothing out of the ordinary. Take away, some violin (please no more carols, though), a glass of Scotch, a roaring fire. Balm to his soul.

Mounting the last stair, John stuck his head into the sitting room, catching Sherlock’s eye. “Hi,” he greeted his flatmate.

“Good evening, John,” replied Sherlock, breaking off his playing.

“Thought I’d order in some Thai,” John suggested, hanging up his coat and scarf. When Sherlock nodded, John picked up his work bag. “I’ll just drop this and come back down.” Sherlock didn’t reply this time, instead picking up exactly where he had left off, to the note. John tried to block it out as deposited his bag in its regular place and returned, calling in an order for their usual before pouring Scotch and settling in his chair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of his toes (no fire, but at least it was better than outside) and relative quiet of no screaming children. Sherlock had moved on by now, the gentle strains of ‘Silent Night’ soothing John’s frayed nerves.

“It sounds different,” John murmured, too low for Sherlock to hear. The lone violin was worlds away from the heavily autotuned version he’d been subjected to all day, quiet and soulful instead of ear-splitting. Sherlock’s violin often had that effect on him, though he wouldn’t necessarily say he liked violin music, per se. Privately, he admitted that he liked Sherlock’s music because it was Sherlock’s. Right now, he allowed himself to relax, the Scotch and warmth doing their part. When the music finished, John waited until it was clear that Sherlock would not begin another.

“Are you done?” John asked, opening his eyes to look at Sherlock. “I had to listen to awful versions of carols all day.” He smiled at Sherlock. “Yours are much better.”

“Any requests?” asked Sherlock, his voice quiet. John studied him for a moment, seeing a stillness only ever present when Sherlock was in a serious mood. It had happened more often since he had returned, and John had not ventured to ask what had brought it on. A small part worried that it was him, that asking would precipitate the conversation where Sherlock would ask him to leave. Better to live here with unsatisfied curiosity.

“I like, ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,’” John admitted. “It’s not all that uplifting, but…” he shrugged.

“The lyrics aren’t as sombre as the melody would imply,” replied Sherlock, frowning a little. “Have you ever listened to them?”

“Of course I have,” replied John, “We sang it every year in the Army. Usually drunk, but the words stuck.”

“Well, then, you can accompany me,” Sherlock said, bringing his violin back to his chin before John could argue. He played a slow introduction, nodding to John when it was time for him to join in. John, who had resigned himself to his fate and chugged the last of his Scotch in preparation, started to sing. When he reached the part about, _‘now your troubles will be out of sight’_ , Sherlock made a pointed face at him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle, missing the beginning of the next section. Sherlock brought the music back around, allowing John to continue.

Somehow, that small moment, the wry acknowledgement of John’s recent upheaval, made him feel better. He continued, standing up to join Sherlock by the window. The snow was falling more heavily now, Christmas lights blinking through windows as far as he could see down Baker Street. His voice wasn’t great, John knew, but it felt right, standing here, singling softly while Sherlock played. So many of the lyrics seemed to have been written for the pair of them, and John wondered that he’d never really paid much attention to them. They were all about putting the past behind you, staying close to the people who were dear to you. And who was dearer than Sherlock? Who had stood by him more steadfastly, been more loyal, given more to their friendship than the tall detective currently accompanying him? The realisation made John falter a little, and to his astonishment Sherlock picked up where he’d left off.

 _“In the end, we both will be together, if the fates allow,”_ Sherlock’s baritone rumbled. John recovered to sing the next line, and close out the song; every note was breathed in concert with Sherlock, the violinist’s lips forming the words as he played. When the last note hung in the air, Sherlock’s arm dropped, the violin and bow lowering. His eyes were locked to John’s, the atmosphere lending a gravitas to his face that was rarely present. John could feel his heart pounding solidly in his chest. Had he and Sherlock finally come to a place where they could acknowledge this current between them, the pull that had made Sherlock offer, _‘Want to see some more?’_ and John gasp, _‘Oh God, yes.”_ As he searched Sherlock’s face, knowledge flared in him – this was what had been affecting Sherlock’s mood. Had Sherlock just now admitted the connection to himself? Or had he genuinely not seen it before John had returned so recently to Baker Street? John had ignored it for years, dating women, even marrying Mary, but nothing had ever damped the thrill he felt when Sherlock looked at him like that. Like he was looking right now, eyes intense as though he was marking John’s very soul.

“That song was written for _Meet Me In St. Louis_ ,” Sherlock said, his eyes dropping to John’s mouth.

“Are you going to St. Louis?” John asked, stepping closer, collecting the violin and bow without breaking his gaze and reaching over to place them on the desk. His toes were touching Sherlock’s shoes; only the height difference was keeping their noses from brushing. With a small smile, John reached up one hand, brushing a curl back behind Sherlock’s ear, letting those fingers settle against Sherlock’s neck. The shudder at his touch was all he needed to know.

As he curved his fingers around to pull Sherlock down, John heard Sherlock breathe, “I’m not going anywhere, John.”

“Good,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips.


End file.
